Cat & The Dreamer

By Annalisa Crawford

At school, Julia was drawn to the aloof and intriguing new student, Rachel, who lured her into a suicide pact. Julia survived; Rachel did not.

Fifteen years later, Julia is still struggling with the guilt and trauma of that day, causing her to retreat into daydreams as a means of escape. But, even there, she is unable to find peace, as a s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynher Books
• Release date: Apr 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781739160845

Annalisa Crawford

Annalisa Crawford lives in Cornwall, UK, with a good supply of moorland and beaches to keep her inspired. She lives with her husband, and canine writing partner, Artoo. Her two sons have flown the nest, but still like a mention.Annalisa writes dark contemporary, character-driven stories, with a hint of paranormal.She is the author of four short story collections, and her novels Grace & Serenity (July 2020) and Small Forgotten Moments (August 2021) are published by Vine Leaves Press.

Book preview

Me… Just Me

TODAY IS RACHEL’S birthday. Born 17th November 1981. A bundle of joy, no doubt, for her doting parents who wrapped her in a fluffy pink blanket and brought her home in time for Christmas.

Fifteen years later, to that very day—to this very day—she was buried, right where I’m standing. Buried under years of untended grass and weeds, the plot neglected since her parents divorced and moved away; ripped apart, torn away. Shadows of grief are long and thriving.

The gravestone, once gleaming pale marble in the shape of an angel, is weathered with green moss, and tarnished with dirty rain; some of the lettering is starting to erode.

I hate that angel. I hate the way she smiles benevolently, the way she stands prominent over the neighbouring graves, observing the cemetery with a smug, gloating expression. Yes, I’m dead as well, but I’m still better than you.

I toss the bouquet of lilac roses onto the grave without regard for presentation. The other plots have vases built into the base of the gravestone, or potted plants which are growing and flourishing. My pitiful offering is the only colour on this six-foot oblong. I kneel for my annual prayer: dear Lord, thank you for saving me. As the years pass, the more I think I should be admonishing Him for his failure to let me die as well.

The damp earth seeps through my jeans. I stand and check for grass stains. The wind rushes through the trees and I hug my coat tightly around me. My feet are rooted and I’m unable to muster the energy to leave.

I’m only going home, after all—there’s nothing much for me there, aside from my mother preparing to dish up dinner and my father complaining about whatever news item has offended him today. I’ve tuned out his latest outbursts—gay marriage, single mothers, unemployed people sponging off his taxes. He has opinions on everything, and no one listens anymore.

In this small square of land, tucked between a housing estate and the dual carriageway, there’s an otherworldly quality, a sense of timelessness. I catch the breeze; I float away.

The angel sneers at me as I turn and amble along the gravel path. I know she does.

When I walk through the front door, my parents are lying dead in the hallway. There are bloody trails along the carpet as if they struggled to escape the vicious attack or pleaded for mercy. I scan the scene for a moment, trying to absorb the truth of it all, searching for clues. All I can truly think is: I’m an orphan.

In the living room, the furniture is overturned, the cushions are slashed; the drawers of the dresser open and the contents strewn across the floor. I crouch and graze my hand over the disarray. Nothing obvious is missing. The thieves—for there must have been more than one to assail two people at the same time—were looking for something specific. It appears my father’s secret life as a spy has been compromised and curtailed.

When I walk through the front door, my mother is humming along to a song on the radio in the kitchen, pulling plates from the cupboard and rummaging in the drawers for cutlery. My father, unseen from my spot in the hall, will be inhabiting his customary place at the table, reading the newspaper and overlooking the fact he could be helping.

Julia? Is that you? Mum’s voice cuts the air.

It would be such bliss, one day, to walk into the house and be alone, to move at my own pace, to take a bottle of cider from the fridge and open it while still wearing my coat. To not be required to speak. To enjoy the silence.

I consider ignoring her. I consider turning and running back down the street.

Yes.

You’re late.

I didn’t go to work today, remember?

So, where have you been until this time?

I shrug. Coat on its hook, bag slung over the banister. With all the other coats, with all the other bags.

That bloody grave, Dad mumbles from behind the newspaper.

Mum looks from Dad to me. Didn’t you go this morning?

This morning, this afternoon: the day is a blur.

It’s not good for you. Is it, Bev? It’s not good for the girl. He leans back in his chair and raises his voice as if Mum’s in another room.

I’m not a child.

Wandering off to that bloody cemetery all the time. It’s best forgotten, that’s what I say.

It’s not all the time. You know it’s not all the time. And, I don’t know about Mum, but I’m getting really fed up with hearing your opinions about it. Just let me be.

Don’t talk to your father like that.

Like what? I slump into the chair, arms folded defiantly across my chest, and wait for a plate to appear in front of me.

I’m fifteen years old again, being chastised for my perceived transgression. I slouch, visibly shrinking to inhabit the gangly, awkward body I left behind years ago. My head swarms with all the years I’ve not yet lived.

We eat in silence, because it’s for the best, the way all our meals are eaten. Mum tries to make some effort—a remark about her day or the argument she overheard in the post office—before giving up and stabbing carrots with her fork. I nibble around the edges, not hungry. I’m never hungry when I come home in the evenings but Mum insists we sit together as a family.

Afterwards, I collect the plates, stack the dishwasher, wipe the sides, make coffee, and hide in my bedroom. And that’s it: half-past six and my day has come to an end. No friends to meet for a drink, no evening yoga class, no date.

Pyjamas on, I scroll through endless TV channels for something interesting, then opt for a James Stewart DVD from my shelf. I’ve seen The Philadelphia Story so many times I know exactly what happens next; I deliver Katherine Hepburn’s lines alongside her.

Despite my visit to the cemetery, I try not to dwell on Rachel, the girl who left, the girl who took so much of me with her. It rarely works; she’s with me wherever I go, whatever I try to do. She’s the glue keeping me stuck to my parents’ house. When I close my eyes, she’s right there in front of me, sitting on her bedroom floor, the glass in her hand.

The moon is bright when I turn off my light at half-past eight, casting silvery shadows around the room. There’s a world of people out there who haven’t even eaten dinner yet. They’ve returned from work and are sitting with a glass of wine beside their significant other to dissect the day, or they’ve taken their kids to an early cinema showing as a reward for good grades. They’ve considered cooking, but decided to eat at their favourite restaurant instead, because these people I’ve invented have a favourite. They have a choice of them. My parents go to a pub on the coast road, which they use for birthdays and anniversaries and random one-off celebrations. The rest of the time they—we—eat at home.

I fall asleep with the curtains open—staring at a